I Stand
by Milk and Glass
Summary: William Dell Parker is more than a receptionist, and he's out to prove it to everyone, especially Naomi. Dell/Naomi pairing. Oneshot.


He's got gentle hands, because he knows what it's like to feel a harsh touch. He's got a nervous smile; he tries to be amiable and fit in with everyone. It matters to him that they don't ask him about his life; that they take what he does for granted. He's the youngest of the group, sure, but he's not a child. And he proves it, every day.

It's May and December. Cooper laughs and claps him on the back; follows his gaze to where she stands with her blue-black hair slightly messy and her shoulders relaxed as she laughs with Addison or gossips with Violet. He resents the laughter, but he understands the point of view – he's some surfer boy who just happens to man the phones and file the charts. She's a successful gynecologist and fertility specialist, and she's been married once, has a child, and doesn't seem to have any plans for another long-term relationship. He stands outside the door and listens to the women laugh about their latest disastrous date, and he feels his heart twist, because really? He'd never treat her like she's less than she is.

He's aware that they laugh at him behind his back. He's aware that when he talks to Naomi, she's smiling politely and her mind is somewhere else. But he fantasizes about kissing her lips and catches himself filing Mrs. White's file in Mr. Whittaker's folder and his tanned skin darkens in embarrassment over the slip, because he prides himself on being organized – being the only one in the office who's organized – and he doesn't want Naomi to think that he can't handle it.

Because he can – he can handle more than any of them; he's still got scars on his arms and a gunshot scar in his hip, and he still can't skip a meal unless he wants to spend the afternoon in the bathroom.

He can handle it. And he really wishes she would realize that he can handle her, all of her, from her emotional outbursts to the smiles she tosses him over the counter as she accepts her coffee and sweeps to her office.

William Dell Parker is a latchkey kid. He carries it proudly, but secretly, inside his shirt, because if anyone knew that the six-year-old was going home after school to a sloppy self-made peanut-butter sandwich and a darkened living room, they'd call the school and ensure that someone was looking out for him. And he doesn't need it – he can take care of himself, even though he can barely reach the counter and sometimes the key's too hard for him to turn in the stiff old lock. When that happens, he'll wait on the front steps until someone wanders home.

If it's his mother, he knows he'll have to wait an hour or two, tops. She works as a waitress in the restaurant by the community centre and she gets most of the day shifts, knowing that she can't afford a baby-sitter for her little boy. She'll come home and he'll climb into her lap after supper and fall asleep as she reads him "Where the Wild Things Are" for the hundredth time.

If it's his father, he might be waiting for hours. The last time he fell asleep on the front steps and it was dark when his father stumbled home, smelling of scotch. He woke up as the truck sputtered in the driveway and dashed inside ahead of his dad, upstairs even though his stomach was growling loudly and he had to pee really badly. He doesn't mess around with asking his father anything. He finds that staying out of his way is the best bet.

The best days are when his grandparents come to stay. They live an hour away and he wishes that his mother would move away from his father so that they could live with them. His grandmother loves to bake, and she always lets Dell lick the spoon and the bowl when she's finished. His grandfather will play soccer with him in the yard and take him for long walks, hoisting him up to his shoulders when the little boy gets tired.

He's a latchkey kid, and sometimes, he's proud of it.

Sometimes, he just wants to come home to cookies, milk and a good supper after school like every other kid does.

They're outside at Addison's and he's drawing thoughtfully on a beer; he watches the women laugh and cuddle together in blankets and that painful heart twist happens again as the jealousy takes over. He drowns the feeling in beer so that the emotion doesn't show on his face.

He feels a slight breeze and rustle beside him; Pete's leaning on the counter, absently chewing on a toothpick, his lithe body relaxed and his feet crossed. His gaze, however, is fixed on the women, too – only he's staring at Addison.

"What does it take to make them notice you?" Dell blurts, and then feels stupid as Pete's mouth quirks up at the corner. Instead of the expected amused expression, though, Pete just sighs and takes a long pull at his beer.

"Buddy, I wish I knew."

Watching Naomi's hands flash in the air and the Chinese lantern-light glance off her eyes and her teeth, Dell nods.

"I wish I knew, too."

He's hiding under his bed when he hears his father stumble home drunk for the fourth time that week. His mother's downstairs, watching TV; despite himself, he feels his stomach start to turn as he curls himself tighter into a ball and tries not to breathe.

The screaming starts almost immediately; sometimes, she starts it – sometimes, he does. Tonight is one of the times that he starts it, and each expletive is punctuated by the sound of banging or breaking glass. Dell inwardly cries; he knows that all the figurines that his mother loves so much are being broken beyond repair. He'd picked out her favourite, a lady with a red hat, with his grandparents one Christmas.

The fight goes on and on; his hands hurt from clenching; his knees ache from being curled up, but he's still on edge, because he can hear his father's heavy step on the treads of the stairs and he's not out of the woods yet.

But he's off the hook tonight; his father slams the bedroom door and Dell's able to sneak downstairs to his mother, who's looking at the smashed red lady figurine on the floor.

Dell doesn't cry very often, but he bursts into tears as he looks at his mother cupping the red hat in her hands, and realizes that anything he gives her will never, ever last.

But he picks up the pieces and he spends an hour burning his fingers on the glue gun. The figurine he gives her is missing some pieces and doesn't look like the one in his imagination, but she hugs him tightly anyway and stores it on the highest shelf in the living room.

The next time one of the figurines chips, she bypasses his father and brings it directly to him to fix.

He catches Naomi at the door of her office and hands her a cup of coffee. "I'm sorry – I didn't get a chance to give you this first thing," he says, and gives her a hopeful, nervous smile.

She smiles politely at him and throws him the bone he wants. "I appreciate it, Dell. But you don't have to give me coffee every morning. Sam can, or I can get it myself."

His eyes widen at the sound of Sam's name. "Sam?"

"We're back together, now." She laughs a little. "Not that it's really the business of the receptionist, I guess."

Now he frowns. "You know, you don't have to be so condescending."

She realizes her mistake and her face softens. "Dell, I know how you feel about me. But you're a child." She reaches out; touches one of his sun-kissed locks. "You're a sweet boy but you're way too young for me."

His eyes darken. "No, I am not."

"Not what?" She's busy looking over one of the files and he suddenly grabs it from her hand. She's surprised and a little annoyed. "Dell!"

"I'm not a child." With that, he kisses her.

She pulls away almost immediately and her hand comes up to slap him, but he stops it mid-air – not roughly; he would never hurt a woman. He knows all too well what it's like to be hurt. She catches sight of the scars on his wrists and her face falls. "Dell –"

"Don't. I'm not a child." He reaches out a hand, touches her cheek. "And I'll be here, for that day that you realize that."

That's his cue to walk away – that's his cue to leave. But he can't leave her with a stricken look on her face and files at her feet. So he bends, picks up the files, hands them to her and puts a hand on her back, letting her leave the office first.

At the elevator, she turns back to him and kisses his cheek.

"I'm sorry."

His face doesn't change, but his eyes grow tender. "You don't have to apologize to me."

The unspoken words hang between them as the elevator goes down; when she gets to her car, she watches him walk away, his swinging gait and large stride carrying him further away faster than she would like.

But he's made his point, and the next morning, she smiles directly at him and hands him a coffee.

"Good morning, Dell."

And his smile, for once, has no trace of nerves in it at all.


End file.
